


Buchanan Blue.

by rubyrosettared



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: F/M, a bit sappy maybe, a bit sentimental, a tad angsty definitely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-11-02 16:07:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10947993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubyrosettared/pseuds/rubyrosettared
Summary: Bucky Barnes remembers. And he remembers. One shot set post Civil War. I've taken some liberties where names are concerned but that's about it. It's Bucky/Reader implied.





	Buchanan Blue.

**Buchanan Blue**

“You were born March 10th 1917.”

He stares at the screen. It’s there in black and white; James Buchanan Barnes. He looks back at you, you’re watching him with barely contained curiosity.

“You don’t remember your birthday?”

He just shakes his head. March 10th.  He waits for the _‘oh yeah’_ moment but it doesn’t happen. He doesn’t feel any kind of connection to it; it’s a date in a calendar. Ignored and unmarked.

“I’m not the type for cake and ice cream,” he murmurs and he frowns, catching a drift of something in his memory banks. People singing, sitting at a table, smiling, feeling happy. His feet swinging, not quite tall enough for them to hit the floor. Cake. _Chocolate cake with chocolate frosting_. His eyes widen slightly.

“What? You remember something?”

He looks at you. “Chocolate cake,” he all but whispers. “Momma made me a chocolate cake, I think for my birthday.”  He takes a breath and sighs it out. “I was eight.”

You smile softly. Not mom but _momma_ “Eight is a good age for chocolate birthday cake,” you murmur back at him. Another faint smile.

“I’m an April baby, April 6th,” you tell him but you don’t think that he’s heard you. He’s staring at the laptop screen again. His parents are listed on screen as Amelia Buchanan and Jonathan James Barnes, married June 1916. It would seem he was born almost exactly nine months later. He tests their names in his head but again it comes up blank. They're just names but once upon a time they meant something to him. Another memory flashes through his mind, like a bolt of lightning, illuminating every single space and corner of his attention.

He reaches for the memory, holds tightly onto it.

“I was always known as Bucky, from real young. Bucky Blue Eyes…” He remains still as he remembers “Momma used to call me…Bucky Blue Eyes…” He looks at you and your eyes are warm with interest. A ghost of a smile flits across his face.

He remembers falling over and skinning his knees, feeling the sting of raw torn flesh and trying to be a big boy and not cry but tears dribbled down his cheeks anyway. Remembers his mother scooping him up onto her lap and snuggling him in. _She was always warm, comforting._ Pressing a kiss on the top of his head _‘Don’t you cry Bucky Blue Eyes, momma will kiss it all better’_ and she always did. He remembers that she smelled of lavender. The memory catches in a soft gasp at the back of his throat. She had golden blonde hair and blue eyes. _The Buchanan Blues_. All four kids had them. You watch how he straightens in his seat, looking so far away but with a softness in his expression that you don’t see very often. Whatever memories have him hostage right now, they’re good ones. He then looks at you.

“I had three sisters, we all had the same blue eyes. Momma called them the Buchanan Blues.”

You watch him and refrain from touching him though it’s what you want to do most of all. “Do you remember their names?” you ask instead and you watch as that faint frown comes and goes and then he shakes his head.

“We could check, there are online censuses,” you suggest. He looks at you and then after a moment he nods.

“Any time you want to stop, tell me. This will be a lot for you to take in,” you tell him as you pull your laptop closer. He watches you flex your fingers and begin to type again. A few moments pass and you stop and you look at him.

“Here…” you say, pushing the laptop closer to him. He doesn’t touch it, just moves closer to you so that he can read the contents of the screen. His shoulder presses against yours. He’s warm, he’s always so warm to the touch. Hard muscle presses against soft skin.

“Annie, Esther and Ruth Buchanan Barnes,” he slowly reads. He waits for some kind of recognition, a hallelujah moment, but nothing happens, it’s still grey. He glances at you and just shakes his head.

“No?” you enquire you see the frustration in his eyes as he shakes his head once more.

“Maybe you’ll remember something later.” You look at him and this time you do touch him, taking his right hand and sliding your fingers through his. “Don’t try to force it, all you’ll succeed in doing is giving yourself a headache. We’ll look some more when you’re ready to,” you tell him and he nods.

You lean forward and press a soft kiss against his mouth. His eyes slide closed at the gentle embrace, his heartbeat picks up a little at the promise behind it. You draw back and he slowly blinks and looks at you and you smile at him.

“Bucky Blue Eyes, it suits you,” you whisper to him and a slow smile crosses his face.

“As long as you don’t say it out loud in front of Sam or Steve then it’s okay.” He sees how your smile broadens for a moment. Sam especially would get a kick out of it. You slip off your chair, move towards him and you to straddle his lap.

“I won’t,” you promise, slowly lowering yourself down. His hands come up to span your waist. He looks up into your eyes and he smiles.

* * *

He wakes up with a start and stares up at the ceiling with blind eyes. He blinks and realises that his cheeks are wet. He slowly turns his head and looks at you, you sleep soundly beside him. He wipes at his face. He mustn’t have shouted out in his sleep this time as you usually sleep like a cat. He rolls onto his side and sees the line of your bare back in the moonlight.

For once his dreams weren’t filled with terror, forcing screams from his throat. This time he dreamed of a blond young girl barely out of her teens, light blonde hair, big blue eyes. She reminded him of a Kewpie doll, he used to call her ‘Doll’ and he had adored her.

_“Don’t cry Doll, I’ll be back before you know it.”_

_“But what if you don’t, what if you’re…” She can’t finish her sentence, huge tears fill her eyes and drip down her cheeks._

_He sighs and drags her into his arms, feeling hers snake around his waist, holding on tight, burying her face into the curve of his neck. He strokes the back of her head, feeling the silkiness of her hair beneath his palm. Hair like corn silk._

_“I’m too damn stubborn to get killed doll, before you know it, I’ll be back home, gettin’ on your nerves and you’ll be wishin’ I was still over there.” He feels her move her head back so she can look into his eyes. Her mascara has run, leaving dirty smudges down her cheeks. He cups her face, using his thumbs to swipe the smudges away._

_“Never. I’ll never think that,” she vows and fresh tears fill her eyes. He gives a little laugh and pulls her back into his arms again._

_“Yeah you will, you mark my words. Do me a favour and keep an eye on Steve for me will ya? He told me I’d be takin’ all the stupid with me but I dunno, I think he’ll keep a good enough chunk of it for himself.” He hears her cry almost pitifully and a lump forms in his throat and despite himself, he feels a burning behind his eyes. He closes them for a minute and holds her a little bit tighter._

_“Please Ruthie, you’re gonna have to be brave. I’ll write you whenever I can and you have to write me back, keep me in the loop with family news. Will you do that for me?” He draws her back again. Her eyelids are pink and swollen, her cheeks still wet but she nods._

_“I will,” she promises with a hiccup and he makes himself smile. He presses a kiss on her cheek, tasting salt and then on her forehead._

_“I gotta go. Be brave and I’ll be home before you know it.” He keeps his voice low and then hugs her one final time. He watches his dad draw her out of his arms and hold her in his own. He looks at his son and just nods. Bucky turns to his mom and his two other sisters and hugs them each in turn._

_“Look after yourself, don’t get killed.”_

_“I’ll try not to,” he replies valiantly. Steve isn’t here, they’d said their goodbyes the day before in a way, at the Expo before he’d taken Connie and her friend dancing. He picks up his duffel and joins his fellow soldiers as they queue to board the ship taking them to England._

* * *

He sits up and swivels his legs around so that he’s sitting on the side of his bed and he rests his elbows on his thighs, lowering his head into his hands. His baby sister was called Ruthie. He feels a fierce ache in his chest that he rubs at with the heel of his right hand. His throat feels raw, his eyes suspiciously full and he lifts his head and takes a breath. He flinches slightly when behind him the mattress gives and he quickly wipes at his eyes.

“James?” your voice sounds sleepy.

“I’m okay, go back to sleep,” he tells you but his voice sounds rough and you hear it.

“No, I’m awake. What’s wrong? Another bad dream?” He feels the mattress move and then you’re pressed up against his back, your skin warm. You press a kiss between his shoulder blades. For a moment he can’t speak, still feeling a little emotional, a little fragile.

“I remembered Ruthie,” he eventually confesses, his voice a little rough.

“Do you want to talk about her?” you ask, rubbing your cheek against his back.

It feels nice. He looks at his hands. “She was my baby sister, the only one of us kids who was at college. She wanted to be a teacher. I called her Doll because she had big blue eyes like a kewpie doll. She was the one I was the closest to, probably because she was the youngest, I felt like I had to protect her. She didn’t want me to leave, didn’t want me to ship out to England. Cried like a baby.” His throat closes up for a moment, feeling fresh tears threaten.

“I asked her to…write me and… she did. It was my connection to home. She kept me up to date with what was going on in the neighbourhood. I promised her that I would be careful, that I wouldn’t get myself killed.” He stops again and he lowers his head.

“And you didn’t,” you remind him.

“Yeah, because what I became was so much worse. She thought I was dead, she would have mourned me. They all would have,” he retorts bitterly. You feel your heart twist at the pain behind his words and you move around him so that you sit beside him.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry that it seems to have unearthed a can of worms for you. I should’ve realised and stopped. No more, we won’t look anymore.” You lean against him and press a kiss on the top of his shoulder. He looks at you and you can see the tears on his cheeks, silvery in the moonlight and your heart breaks all over again. He slides his arm around you and he draws you against him. You wind your arms around his upper body.

“It’s okay. This is different. What I remembered was good. We were close, I can feel that now, understand it.”

“But it doesn’t make it any less painful being the only one left.”

“I’m not alone now, not anymore,” he whispers to you. You don’t respond, you just rest your cheek against his right shoulder, feeling warm smooth flesh against your skin.

“No, you’re not alone anymore,” you murmur. You lift your head and turn it in his direction, look into those beautiful blue eyes. You gently smile.

He looks at you again. He doesn’t answer, just kisses you instead.

 

**END.**

 


End file.
